


Common Ground

by exklusiv



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: F/M, Mentions of Suicide, anti-templar shouting, mentions of abuse, mentions of self harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-29
Updated: 2015-07-29
Packaged: 2018-04-11 20:21:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4450874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/exklusiv/pseuds/exklusiv
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gry Hawke is fleeing Kirkwall, and she's not going to do it without Fenris or Anders.<br/>And if they're going to survive together, they're going to have to learn to get along.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Common Ground

The sun had finally dipped below the horizon, pulling a blanket of stars over the land as two apostates and an elf walked through the woods. Fenris had been initially furious that Hawke had not only allowed but implored Anders to follow them as they fled Kirkwall, the repercussions of the Chantry’s destruction and Hawke’s support for the action hot on their heels (so hot, in fact, that Fenris was nursing a nasty wound from said repercussions). Hawke had given him a stern glare that told Fenris there was no room for argument.

Love, he decided, was so demanding.

In the thin woods somewhere in the Free Marches, within two days of Kirkwall, they set up a meager camp. Hawke set up a small campfire and Anders set down wards. With a flick of her wrist, Hawke lit the branches in the fire, warming her hands on them while Fenris sat down, the large gash on his side throbbing.

“Should be good enough wards,” Anders said quietly, looking at the area. “For animals and humans alike. The night will be safe.”

Hawke stretched, groaning with satisfaction as several joints cracked. “Maker, nothing’s changed. Out under the stars, running for our lives, glowering at each other. Champion apparently means nothing.”

“Especially if the Champion’s city is sent into chaos,” Fenris groused, placing a hand gingerly on his side.

Anders’ shoulders hunched, but he did not respond, instead turning his attention to his pack. Hawke sighed. “Alright, listen. I know we are all tired from traveling and fending off people that would kill us. But we are going to be together for a very long time. I am not listening to you scream at each other. You two are either going to get along or you’re not going to say a word. Got it?”

“Yes,” Anders said, glancing at Hawke. Fenris sniffed, but nodded his agreement still.

Hawke held her hands up and moved to set up a tent. “Thank you.” 

As she worked to erect their shelter, there was silence, save for the crackling of the fire and Anders continually rummaging through his pack. Fenris was staring intently into the fire when the rummaging abruptly stopped. He was glad for the quiet, but was shocked when Anders was suddenly sitting beside him, holding something in his hands.

“Is there something I can do for you?” Fenris asked irritably. Anders shook his head.

“Hopefully, it’s the other way around. I… know I’ve never been your favorite person. But I don’t like the way you bandaged that wound. I’d like to take a look at it, if that’s alright.”

Fenris regarded the items in Anders’ hands, registering it as a poultice in a jar and some bandages. With a frown, he looked back at the mage.

“How I handled it will suffice.”

“Please?”

“If I let you put something on me without Hawke knowing what it is, am I going to explode, too?”

“Fenris, what did I just say?” Hawke called from the other side of the camp, looking irritably over her shoulder.

Hawke’s irritation was not shared by Anders, who surprisingly didn’t flinch at the accusation, but kept his gaze steady. He pulled the lid off the jar with a pop, holding it up to Fenris’ nose. “It’s just a poultice of elfroot and embrium. Herbalism, not magic. Go on, smell.”

“I said it is taken care of.”

Anders groaned. “Would you at least let me check if there’s any chance of infection? Please?”

“What do you care?”

“Do you want to get sick and die?” Anders said angrily. “Is that it? I understand that you hate me, Fenris, I really do, but I am a healer and by the Maker’s balls, my best friend loves you. I will make sure you’re okay, or so help me…”

The threat was hollow, and they all knew it, but it still elicited an annoyed groan from Hawke. Fenris, however, knew when to admit defeat. With an irritated sigh, he began undoing all of the trappings of his armor, setting them neatly aside before turning to the latches on the front of his tunic. Shrugging out of it, he regarded Anders with a watchful gaze as the healer began unwinding the bandage from his torso.

“Andraste’s flaming knickers,” Anders swore, shaking his head. “This is deeper than I thought it was. How have you been so silent this whole time?”

“Practice,” Fenris said honestly. Anders grimaced.

“Maker. Here, can you… lie down, on your other side? So I can get to all of it?”

With a roll of his eyes, Fenris moved until he was on his side on the ground, trying not to bristle as Anders touched him.

“What luck, though,” Anders said, a blue light glowing in his hand. “A huge gash, and it manages to be located right where there’s no lyrium. Have you ever gotten a wound that breaks the lyrium?”

“Yes.”

“What happens when it does?”

“The lyrium finds itself again over the scar,” Fenris said, his voice exhausted. “The pattern completes itself. I thought you weren’t going to use magic on me!”

“The light is just so I can see better, I swear,” Anders replied, fingertips pressing gently against the edges of the sword wound. “Fascinating, anyway. If it weren’t such an awful thing to do to a person, I’d have liked to look into it more. Research it a bit.”

“Concern for the humane doesn’t seem to be your strong suit.”

“None of the skin around it feels hot,” Anders said, ignoring Fenris’ comment. “And there’s no discoloration. Here, I’m going to put the poultice on it, help speed up the healing process, since I promised no magic.”

Fenris winced when Anders pressed the poultice onto his wound, the initial sting of it melting into a cooling relief. Anders’ actions were delicate and precise, and he was done in no time. Pressing a folded stack of bandages on the wound, Anders bade Fenris to sit up so he could re-wrap his bandages.

“I… noticed you don’t have many scars,” Anders started cautiously, wrapping the clean bandages around Fenris’ middle. “I… was the lyrium the worst thing Danarius did to you?”

“No.”

“Do you heal well, then? Even back in Kirkwall, when I would heal you before, you never had many. I don’t want to assume that you were ever beaten for anything, but—”

“I was obedient.”

That gave Anders reason to pause. The fierce tone of Fenris’ voice stilled his questions, though the answer had given him many. Tying off the bandages, Anders sat back and let Fenris put his tunic back on. Across the camp, Hawke was standing, tying off the tarp for the tent. Everything was uncomfortably silent as Fenris began doing up the toggles that held his tunic together. After a moment of twiddling his thumbs next to the elf, Anders mustered the nerve to speak again.

“I know we’re not friends, but… you could share the burden with me.”

“What on earth makes you think I’d want to tell you anything that happened to me while I was a slave?” Fenris spat, glaring at Anders. Hawke turned quickly, watching her companions closely.

“I might understand better than you think!”

Fenris scoffed and held his hands up. “Oh, forgive me. The oppression of mages, I forgot. Tell me, mage, how you were so oppressed with all that power at your disposal to do as you wished.”

“It’s not—ugh!” Anders threw his hands in the air and stood, walking back to his pack with his poultice jar in his hands. “You are impossible!”

“And you are foolish,” Fenris replied coolly, crossing his arms, pointedly ignoring that his wound was already starting to ache less. Anders huffed angrily and the pair stayed in tense silence as Hawke walked over and sat down next to Fenris, still keeping an eye on both him and Anders. Fenris’ tension settled in his shoulders, but Anders’ entire body was rigid, his hands balled into fists by his hips, his body pulsing with a blue light once before he snarled angrily and kicked his pack.

“You have no idea!” he said finally, turning and pointing at Fenris with an accusatory finger. “You have no idea what the southern Circles are like.”

“Anders,” Hawke warned, standing and holding her hands out.

Ignoring her, Anders barreled on. “You think you know it all because you lived in Tevinter, but you only saw the worst a mage can be, corrupted by money and greed, not by magic.”

“You think—”

“No! You don’t get to defend anything anymore!” Anders shouted, gesturing angrily at the elf. “You think Tevinter exists as it does because magic corrupts? You told me that the magisters even make slaves out of other mages. You don’t think that society exists because it runs on slavery, instead of magic? If magic were a mark of honor, then the moment a mage is born, they’d be praised! But that’s not how it is and you are too stubborn to see it!”

“I’m stubborn? I refuse to see how things are?” Fenris got to his feet, ready for a confrontation. “I lived there! I was part of it! I know firsthand what mages will do to get more power!”

“You know what nobility will do to keep itself in power.” Anders moved towards Fenris, gesturing wildly with every step. “If it’s all mages, why weren’t any of the mage slaves using blood magic to free themselves, to rise up and overtake their cruel masters?”

“Both of you, stop it!” Hawke said, standing between the elf and the mage, a hand on each shoulder to keep them a safe distance from each other.

Fenris ignored her command. “It’s not the same!”

“Why not? All mages are the same, according to you! Why haven’t I turned to blood magic? Why hasn’t Hawke? Why are all mages the same and yet we are not doing these things you all claim we do?”

“Keep her out of this.”

“I can speak for myself, thank you, Fenris!”

“Answer my question,” Anders snarled. “If all mages are the same, what is stopping us? You can’t answer, because you can’t generalize anymore!”

“That is enough!” Hawke said, pushing harder against Fenris, who was leaning forward angrily.

“You think you get to tell me how to feel? You have no idea. Magic destroyed my life.”

“And what exactly do you think it did to mine?”

There was suddenly a very stiff, angry silence; Hawke looked between them both fearfully. A brief flash of blue went through Anders’ eyes; Fenris stayed still until he was sure nothing was going to come of it. He barely trusted Anders, and had absolutely no trust in the demon inside of him, especially when Hawke was in front of him.

“Is Justice going to be okay?” Hawke asked, concerned.

“You’re asking how the demon is?” Fenris asked incredulously.

“For the love of the Maker, that is it!” Hawke said, stamping her foot and sending out a mild mind blast. Fenris and Anders stumbled away from her, regaining their footing as she clenched her fists in anger.

“It is high time both of you got over yourselves and had an adult conversation for once!” Hawke yelled, looking between them. “Maker’s balls, Carver and I are more civil than this. You have both suffered and you both have reason to feel like you do, but ignoring why the other feels that way is not going to help! We’re all on the run together, whether you like it or not, and I will see you two find some common ground.

“You,” she said, pointing at Fenris. “You cannot ignore what Anders is telling you. There’s a reason my family and I moved around Ferelden when I was a child. The Templars are as unsympathetic as the magisters.

“And you!” Hawke turned to Anders. “You have to stop ignoring what Fenris went through like he should understand. You want him to see your view? Show him, don’t just shout at him!”

Anders was quiet for a long moment, then he nodded. “Show him. I can absolutely do that. What about it, Fenris? Would you care if I showed you why I hate the Templars, the Circle?”

Fenris had no time to answer before Anders was reaching up and undoing the chain that held up his feathered pauldrons. He let it fall to the ground and began angrily pulling at the bandages and leather on his wrists, letting it fall next to the pauldrons at his feet. “I was twelve when the Templars came for me. My father had sent for them after I accidentally set the loft of the barn on fire. My bloody father had them take me away. They would have had to tear me away from my mother, if he hadn’t been holding her back while the Templars took me away. She was crying when they came, begging them to let me stay.”

He pulled apart the buttons that held up the upper part of his coat and shrugged it off; the leather belt around his undercoat came apart with a snap and that fell around his feet. Fenris watched with furrowed eyebrows as Anders pulled off the undercoat with a shake in his hands.

“I was in that bloody Circle for almost two decades. I tried to leave seven different times, but every single time they brought me back, except for the last, where the Warden Commander conscripted me. Even then, as a Grey Warden, the Templars hunted me, hated me, wanted me destroyed. They forced a Templar into the Wardens to take me back. I was a Warden, I was doing something good for the world!”

Fenris was taken aback by how loudly Anders was shouting. Down to the dyed black tunic, Anders pointed at his chest. “I was killing darkspawn! Saving people! Doing something good with my magic, and they still wanted me dead! You think you understand mages? You understand the toxic society of the nobility of Tevinter!”

“Anders,” Hawke said softly, placing a hand on his cheek. Anders took in a deep breath, and when he spoke again, he did so without shouting. 

“You understand the cruelty of men who have been given power over others. And you are refuse to see just how much I understand what that feels like.”  
Gathering the bottom of his tunic, Anders pulled it off, tossing it into the dirt. With ears perked forward, Fenris’ eyebrows went up as he looked at Anders. Scars littered the mage’s torso and arms, varying in size, type, and color. There was a wicked one above his heart, made by a blade, and a litany of dark circles on his forearms. Fenris looked at all the scars, then up at Anders’ face.

“You have your marks, Fenris,” Anders said, his voice thick with emotion. “And I have mine, too. Put into us by people that abused us with the power they held over us.”

Anders moved closer to the firelight, then held his wrists out. Fenris’s keen eyesight saw that they were circled with dark, jagged lines. “The Templars that took me to the Circle took me in chains. The shackles they used were poorly made, and rough on the inside. These chains rubbed against my wrists as the Templars pulled me along, shouting insults at me. A twelve-year-old boy, terrified out of his mind, and they did everything they could to scare me more. It took nearly two weeks to get to the Circle; my wrists were bloody by the third day. The scars healed dark because of an infection the healers in Kinloch Hold were barely able to stem in time.

“This one, here,” Anders said, pointing to a long white scar on his hip. “This was from when they put me in solitary confinement for a year. I don’t know how long in, I started to see things. I thought something was coming at me, and I ran from it, unthinking. I ran into the bars of my cell, broke the skin. I cried for help and the Templars that stood outside my door laughed. They laughed as I lay on the ground, bleeding, begging for aid.”

Fenris clenched his hands uncomfortably at his sides, unsure what to think. Anders was working himself into a steam as he pointed to each scar and told Fenris the story behind them, nearly every single one related to the Circle. Several he pointed out as scars from his time as a Warden, but the ones that gave him pause were the circles on his arms.

“These…” he said shakily, touching one with the tip of his finger. “I once asked you if you ever thought about killing yourself, to escape slavery. I asked because that’s how I often saw the other apprentices die in the Circle. And… there were times I considered it myself.”

“You gave yourself those.”

“Ice burns,” Anders said quietly, shaking his head. “Fire is too easy to see, and if you draw blood, they call you maleficar. Ice will damage without drawing attention. And it’s… easier for me to conjure ice. I didn’t do it often, but sometimes I thought maybe it was the best option.”

“What stopped you?” Fenris blurted out, falling too easily into the antagonistic role he knew. Hawke gave him a pointed warning stare and Fenris’ ears pulled back.

“Karl did.”

Fenris tilted his head and his ears perked right back up. “That… Tranquil mage?”

“Against all Chantry law,” Anders said furiously, shaking his head. “He passed his bloody Harrowing, and I never even thought of running when I was with him. And they sent him to the flaming Gallows, took him away from me. All I have ever known, all I have ever loved, the Templars and the wretched Chantry have taken from me.”

“You loved him?”

Anders stayed silent, standing straight but refusing to look at the former slave. After he received no response, Fenris nodded towards the red scar on Anders’ chest. “And that one? What of that?”

With a shaky hand, Anders put his hand over the long scar, running his thumb over it.

“You’ve never even told me what that one is,” Hawke said, frowning. “If you… you don’t have to say if it’s too painful.”

Anders still said nothing. The length of his silence made Fenris think that Anders wasn’t going to answer him, and then suddenly Anders was digging his nails into the skin of his chest, his eyebrows furrowed angrily as he set his jaw.

“They tried to kill me. And Justice.”

Hawke gasped loudly, hands coming up to her mouth as Fenris’ eyebrows furrowed. “I’m sorry?”

“I… it’s complicated. Justice had been forced into the body of a dead Warden named Kristoff in Amaranthine. We were trapped in the Fade in the Blackmarsh, and a blood mage possessed by a Pride demon sent us back through the Veil. Justice was there, trying to free the trapped souls of the villagers that had lived in the area when the blood mage took them into the Fade with her. He was forced through with us, and he needed somewhere to go. The body was there, dead and empty. He decided it was proper justice to kill the creatures that had killed Kristoff. Justice and I… we became friends, talked often, as he traveled with us in Amaranthine to help defeat the Mother.

“When… when Kristoff’s body began to decay further than could be salvageable, I offered myself to him. He was a good friend, a being that wanted to personally apologize to Kristoff’s widow, who wanted to kill the darkspawn for destroying homes, and asked as politely as he could for a ring of lyrium. He loves the sound it makes, you know. He… thinks it sometimes about the lyrium in your skin. That’s a very odd intrusive thought to have.”

Hawke chuckled while Fenris tried not to snort at the comment. “That still tells me nothing.”

“The Wardens had been strong-armed into accepting a Templar into their ranks. He was put with me on every mission we went on; even in my duty to the world, the Templars were watching my every move. It was a terrible blow, you see, that I had evaded the Circle by undertaking the Joining and becoming a Warden. And, well, when I accepted Justice into me so he could live in this world, the Templar, Rolan, he decided immediately that an abomination could not be suffered. I think… I think when I go into periods of high stress, or high emotion, when I get overwhelmed, Justice steps in. And when they came for me, I panicked. Justice took control, and he, well… if Justice decides that the blow will not kill us, it won’t.”

Fenris’s eyes went wide. “You… you can’t die?”

“Maker, that’s incredible,” Hawke added.

“I can die,” Anders clarified. “Just not if Justice thinks I should live. If Justice is in control, there is a very good chance any mortal wound on me will not be effective. But when Rolan put his sword into me—into us—it did nothing. And then Justice killed him. That’s when I left the Wardens and came to Kirkwall.”

Anders stooped low and began gathering up the clothing he had taken off, sliding the tunic over his head as he picked up his outerwear. “I may not have been a technical slave, Fenris, but I know what you went through, and I know what it is to fear the people that hold your life in their hands. I know what it is to have to do what you are told. I know what it is to run from your captors, fearing them with every step. And I know what it is to wish you could get rid of the thing that gives you this power that scares people.”

Fenris gave a start. He’d never considered that Anders had wished to get rid of his magic; he was under the impression the mage was quite proud of the fact that he could wield a vicious power at his fingertips. To suddenly hear that Anders wished he could be rid of it as much as Fenris wished he could be rid of the lyrium in his skin was astonishing; and Fenris, unbeknown to him, had asked for it. What was it like to have a power that no one asked for?

“I do not ask that you like me,” Anders finally said as he buckled the belt that wrapped around his waist. “I ask only that you no longer act like the supreme authority on mages because you lived in Tevinter. Some mages are content with their lot, of course. But Orana was content as well. Neither makes the situation any better.”

With his outer coat and his pauldrons in his arms, his bandages balled up in his fist, Anders sat down next to his pack, further redressing himself, his back turned to Fenris. Slowly, Fenris sat back down on the ground, thinking intently on Anders’ words. Hawke scuffed her heel in the dirt, looking at Fenris.

“Are we all okay? Do you want to say anything else?”

Her question was met with empty air. With a sigh, Hawke rubbed her forehead. “Well, silence is better than shouting, I guess.”

Hawke walked over to the tent, setting to roll out their bedrolls. Fenris glanced over at Anders; he sat with his knees to his chest, playing with a ball of white light in his hand. The harsh light made him look exhausted, calling attention to the deep hollows of his cheeks and the dark circles under his eyes. He looked years older than he was.

After a moment, Fenris stood and walked over to the tent, ducking inside and seeing Hawke on her knees, meticulously arranging the bedrolls. She looked over her shoulder at him.

“Fenris?”

“I…” Fenris huffed and frowned. “I still do not like him.”

“I expected as much.”

“He is dismissive of my experiences and treats me with disdain.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Still,” Fenris said, his ears perked up thoughtfully. “I had… never given much thought to how he had lived. What he had been through. I do not agree that mages should be free, but that… people should not be subjected to that. No matter who they are.”

Hawke smiled, then stood and wrapped Fenris in a warm hug. His hands rested on her hips as she kissed his cheek. “Perhaps, love, you should say those things to him instead of to me.”

“Perhaps.”

**Author's Note:**

> Fenris and Anders are literally two sides of the same coin and I really hate that nothing in two really called on that. I wanted so badly for there to be some form of communication and understanding about where the other is coming from and I think this is the best start for it.  
> Hoorah!


End file.
